


Let Your Mountains Dark and Dreary, Be

by Husbandits



Category: Klaus (2019)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OT3, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Tattoos, Touch-Starved, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, backstory ig
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:56:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28919433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Husbandits/pseuds/Husbandits
Summary: In the aftermath of the shift in Smeerensburg's disposition, Mogens finds himself depressed and isolated, cut off from those around him without pain to commiserate with, and the sudden loss of action to distract him from his own wistfulness.Not helping this are the specters of his past turning up and pulling open old wounds. Their coincidental attempt at atonement falters, neither party wanting to cause further pain; but with some goading from his well-meant friends, reconciliation doesn't have to be insurmountable...
Relationships: Mogens (Klaus 2019)/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 2





	1. Please Please Please Please Please Please Do Not Touch Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! i know it's late january now and we're well-past the christmas season but I put off watching klaus until this year, and now I'm a little hooked... |´∀｀●)  
> this fic was inspired by [this post by t-i-g-g-s](https://t-i-g-g-s.tumblr.com/post/189542892753/but-what-if-mogens-used-to-havefriends); Håkon and Bernt are both inspired by their ocs, and I want to thank them again for letting me write this
> 
> I'm hooping the shorter chapter lengths will let me get these out on a decent schedule, instead of my usual maybe-once-every-other-month timetable...

Life on Smeerensburg takes a fairly predictable pattern. Comforting enough on most days, mind-numbing on others. It’s a familiar routine, something you can set your schedule to and fall into a rhythm of mundane domesticity.

Sometimes the cloying congeniality of it all is downright sickening, when you’re used to how things were before.

These days, things seem to be split into two distinct groups; Now and Before. 

Before, the never-ending rounds of jeering and brawling had left little room for brooding or introspection.

Before, the rhythm of rising tension and all-out blood-shed had been rousing enough to keep a man on his toes, if just to see how miserably another wiped out.

Before, there’d been a host of desolate souls to poke fun at, and commiserate with in turn, when one’s spirits got low.

Now... For now Mogens’ comfort comes mainly from the week-long stretches he spends on the mainland, in a haze of self-indulgence. Drowsing mostly, lost to the cares of alleged friends or scheming postmen. 

It’s a fond ritual of his, one that has yet to see intrusion by the town’s newfound harmony. A comforting routine, and one he indulges in early into the spring. Christmas has come and gone, and the second year of the whole  _ ordeal _ brings no small amount of anxiety to Mogens. Estrangement, and a sense of forlornness he’d thought he’d become numb to long ago.

But then, life always has another little twist waiting for him, doesn’t it?

The weeks blur into one another, and the ferryman finds himself with no pressing desire to return to Smeerensburg. To festive neighbors and mending antipathy, and the yawning vacancy in his own life. Well, none until his liquor supply runs dry.

The days blur together in a comfortable haze of languor, and melancholic fugue. He’s not unused to these episodes, the sporadic spells of misery that swallow up all perception and make the thought of even going to get supplies impossible, until sheer hunger drags him from the shack and four hours down the road to the nearest rickety little tavern. It’s practically habitual, at this point, and something he’s become well-used to. A few weeks (or nearly a month, as things turn out) spent nursing his sorrow, lost to the world on bad drink and better-forgotten memories, and eventually he’s able to pull himself back into something of a functional state, and get back to his (much-needed) task of supplying goods and keeping egos in check.

Eventually, an interlude comes. A sharp, obnoxious, rapping at the splintered sill, and the harsh clearing of a throat. The sound cuts through his slumber glaringly, and for a long moment all Mogens can do is blink. Tilt his hat back and give the offending silhouette a bleary look.

The quip that comes to mind dies in his throat when he realizes just who it is.

The wiry shape of Bernt’s almost-gaunt frame is unmistakable, even if his rare bout of stubble has grown into a rather shaggy beard, and there are tired-looking bags under those soft green eyes. The deep honey-flecked brown in Håkon’s, the breadth of his handsome jawline, and the near-subtlety of his imposing build. The decades it’s been since he’s gone through the trouble to look back on them properly melt away in the span of a second. It’s  _ them _ .

In an instant, the misery that Mogens had been nursing collapses in on itself, and threatens to swallow him whole. The overwhelming dread he’d shoved deep down, buried under so much denial and distraction he’d thought it gone entirely comes racing back up to engulf him, and his throat locks up. His head spins, his stomach roils.

For a second it’s that god-awful night in that shady bar all over again. He’s in that brig again, looking out on the remnants of a life he’d never been good enough for, with no mercy to come.

Then he forces it back down, steels himself to the grief again, and reflex takes over. Another moment, and eventually he can give the nearer man a  _ look _ .

“Ahem.” Håkon grunts, expression rumpled with blunt exasperation. “Don’t mean t’ _ trouble _ you,  _ sir _ , but you run the ferry ‘cross t’Smeerensburg, yeah?” He grimaces when met with just a bored nod. “Partner and I were lookin to get a’cross. ‘Fore nightfall, f’it’s not too much bother.”

Mogens takes a moment to respond, weighing the question visibly before he moves. Slides his boots down one at a time to the floor, heaving up to his feet like it’s some effort. Tucks the hat back down over his face, hoping against plausibility it’ll hide him somewhat; hell, if he’s  _ lucky _ they might not remember him at all. “Oh sure, sure! That’s what I’m  _ here _ for, after all.”

He moves calmly,  blasé resolve not faltering, even when the other men perk up at his voice. Both pairs of eyes are locked onto him, here in this run down little shack he’s let himself wallow in for far too long, and their combined weight is overwhelming. The ferryman offers both a brief look, and then hauls himself out from the cramped little shack, completely nonchalant. “A minute to fetch the cargo and we’ll be off…”

Nonchalant that is, until that soft voice pipes up, and slices right through his bravado. Bernt hesitates, as if not even sure what he’s seeing. “Mogens?”

As if he can’t believe the wreck in front of him is  _ really _ Mogens. Turning to him with a slump and letting himself meet Bernt’s gaze for a moment, Mogens gives the man a bored, utterly disinterested blink. “Do I know you?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, nudging past the pair to get one of the canvas bags of mail heading back to the island. The amount of incoming mail has picked up staggeringly in the past few years; from one, maybe two, letters a month to easily ten, twenty, in a week. The surge is, naturally, owed largely to the ol’ ‘bribe kids with toys for letters’ scheme, but a startling amount of it is made up of correspondence to the glut of mail randomly sent out by the clans’ schemes at some point (Mogens had never really gotten around to figuring out how that had happened). Thus far it’s not been unmanageable, save for when Mogens lets himself get behind like this. He hefts the not-terribly-heavy sack up onto his shoulder without too much trouble, and turns back to the boat. Catches a hint of the look Håkon shoots at Bernt, but doesn’t pay it any mind.

He grunts, putting them behind his shoulder, but, of course things can’t be allowed to rest, and a gloved hand catches the side of his coat. “W-Wait, Mogens it’s us, me, uh, me and Håkon...”

His coat is snagged from the grasp as he pushes on, dropping the mailbag with an indelicate thump. Grunts, turning to look at the pair again one hand coming to hip. Can’t fully hide the hurt behind boredom, daze turning to a sharp glare. 

“Funny, you know those names aren’t really ringing a bell here,” He frowns, delighting at the  _ wince _ Håkon gives at his overdone tone. “You said  _ Hogan _ ?” He frowns, giving a scrupulous look, before dropping the expression. Shaking his head as if he’d considered it at all. “Hm. No. Can’t say I know any Hogans. But hey, what do I know? Never actually had that much awareness back in the navy, you know, I suppose I was just a  _ tragedy waiting to happen _ ...”

With that the bitter ferryman turns back to his work, ostensibly making space for the other mailbag. Only to, again, be dragged back to a discussion that ended decades ago. It’s Håkon this time, gravelly voice turned brittle with stress. He hesitates, reaching out to catch him. “Mogens listen, we- I-”

The hand he shoots latches onto Mogens’ thick forearm, icy fingers slipping under the sleeve, and for a moment the touch is hot as a brand. Mogens snatches back, hissing a curse like it’d  _ hurt _ .

He snarls, more for the way they retreat than out of any genuine pain. Withdraws, reigning in his temper and letting the anger dim back down to dull disinterest.

“I don’t want to hear it.” He grunts, half-contemplating if he can guilt one of them into get the other bag for him, “You know, I’ve got things nice and cozy here, and you’re just... not worth getting my hands messy over.”

Håkon balks, staring at him with a mix of shock and defeat, but says nothing. Seems to be lost as to what to do, but then Bernt was always the connective tissue between them. With a wordless grunt, the taller man hefts the bag over one shoulder (directed perhaps by Mogens’ brief glance). Approaches gingerly, offering him that soft look that’d always crumbled his resolve. “Perhaps, we should be getting on, then?”

“Of course.” Mogens hums, allowing his voice to return to it’s more usual candor. Glances down the abandoned road, briefly, before allowing himself to tease. “We have to get you  _ lovebirds _ out to Smeerensburg by nightfall, don’t we?”


	2. I Loved You, I Loved You, I Loved You, It's True

_Spring on the_ Aureate _. The breeze carries the taste of salt and the memory of the shore. The evening sun hovers over the horizon, and Mogens is momentarily sedate. Perched in the ship’s crow’s nest, and ostensibly keeping watch for any trouble. The endless stretch of steady waves and open skies glosses over his eyes, focus more directed inward than out, indulging in a sporadic moment of self-reflection._

_It’s not that unusual, really, to find the young man antsy and restless on some auspicious eve, and today is a rare exception. Today is their last wholly at sea, and tomorrow they set for shore. They’ll catch sight of the port by noon, likely, and be aground by sundown, easily. Everything feels serene for now, and yet he can’t wait for the new sights, for the easy guise of anonymity. The chance to be himself, with no eyes to condemn._

_The ageless spell of contemplation is cut short by a familiar call coming up the foremast, and a jostling on the rope. The rigging shifts, creaking under the weight of a second man, and he’s met with Bernt’s warming presence. Mogens snickers, shifting aside to give the cooper more room to climb in the nest beside him, but otherwise makes no move._

_“So this is where you’ve snuck off to…” Bernt hums, and gets little but a huff in response. The taller man is agile on the riggings despite his incoordination at other times, more natural at it than Mogens himself was for a long while, and were he not so secure now, the deckhand might feel inadequate next to him._

_He gives a show of bristling at the insinuation, and then snorts, relinquishing his post. Allows himself a moment of repose, feeling the warmth of the other man’s body beside him; the presence at his side is a grounding comfort. “Ah, had to find a quiet spot to myself. Get ready for the big trip tomorrow, you know?”_

_“Mn, now you sound like our steward,” He teases, but the bitterness doesn’t reach Bernt’s tone. The breeze in Mogens’ hair feels invigorating, the companion beside him mollifying. The only thing he wants right now is to reach up and kiss that smirk off his face. Distracts himself instead by turning his thoughts back to what awaits them on land, even as Bernt continues to pester. “Do you and Håkon always obsess about our line of business, or do you talk about anything else?”_

_A thoughtful hum at that. Bernt never likes discussing_ business _openly onboard, but up here in the nest there’s no one to overhear, and the two of them could talk freely, if they wanted. No keening ears, no eyes on them at all._

_He gives a crooked grin, dropping one train of thought for another. Hums, reaching to run a hand, tentatively, along Bernt’s exposed arm. Traces the still-tender line of that dark anchor, a twin to his own, absently. Gets nothing but a shiver in response, and Mogens takes raw delight in the flustered smile Bernt fails to hide behind his halfhearted scan of the horizon._

_“I suppose I have a few other ideas. If you have a moment to spare, I could show you?” He hums, and the other man is powerless under his guidance. Cold under his lips, when Mogens tips up onto his toes to lay a kiss at his nose. Toasty under the probing touch of his chilled fingers, and tender under his teeth._

_Whatever banal task had dragged Bernt up to the nest is abandoned, forgotten for tugging insistently at the choppy hair collecting behind Mogens’ head, and allowing himself to be driven to madness. Mogens delights in the feeling of Bernt coming undone, the practiced skill of kissing all sense from the pragmatic man. Allows Bernt to tug him down below the line of visibility, allows himself to be lost in the moment._

  
_As the evening light fades, stars emerging to guide the_ Aureate _home, the two draw ever closer, barely paying the fading light any mind. Neglecting what tomorrow might hold for them, and taking solace from the cold in the cramped crow’s nest._


	3. You Keep On Turning Pages For People Who Don’t Care, People Who Don’t Care About You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> woo this took a couple days longer than I'd planned, but it's here!

That was it. That was supposed to be it. The dreadful pair of ghosts sneaking up out of nowhere and piling onto his problems was supposed to be the extent of it. A test of personal strength, punctuated by a deathly tense ferry ride; bereft of it’s usual gossip. Admittedly, things had become manageable enough, if not _peaceful_ , when the two of them had started to whisper furtively, like he’d’ve bothered to listen in. And hadn’t said a word when he’d dumped the couple on the docks to drag the mailbags up to the old post office, ahead of his normal schedule.

Then that was that. Done. Behind him, for as long as they’d be occupied, before what was sure to be a miserable ride back to the mainland, and then he could put all this behind him. Stuff the lid back on this regretful chapter of his life, and bury it deep beneath mischief and distraction again. Get back to his own miserable routine.

The post office, when he finally meanders up to it, is a familiar, if altered, sight, and Mogens takes a moment to take in the sight. Look over the myriad of improvements made to the rickety building, inexperienced though they may be.

What had been a run down old rathole just two years ago is now almost a cozy home. Still more rough than comfortable, still crooked and riddled with chickens (and likely a fair amount of other creatures), and no doubt still lets in more chill than it doesn’t, but the broken old door has been replaced with new, sturdy wood, as have most of the supports holding the upper level of the building steady. The roof doesn’t seem to have many holes left, and the mountain of snow piled on top of the whole building has, if not been cleared away entirely, (an effort almost no one in Smeerensburg goes through) been swept away enough to not loom ominously, seemingly ready to take down the whole structure at a moment’s notice. He knows, before he even gets close that inside there’s a decently stocked pantry and a wood stove keeping the whole thing nice and warm. Cozy, if likely still not up to the little noble’s standards.

After giving the station a moment’s survey, Mogens drops his tuneless whistle, stepping toward the building and grabbing the bags from the back of the (borrowed) cart. Gives a wordless call, letting the first bag thump onto the counter and dropping the second to slump at the wall beside him. Leans at the dutch door, clearing his throat obnoxiously, and then waits. Eventually a wiry figure emerges from the back.

“Ugghh…” Jesper groans, not bothering to give Mogens more than a quick glance. “You're _finally_ back. You would not believe how upset some of the townspeople are getting about their postage. I was starting to think we’d have to send someone out to find you.”

The concern implied in his banter is pushed away with disregard, Mogens humming and leaning against the counter a little further, resting on his elbows. Lets the postman heft the bag over one shoulder without moving an inch. Chuckles, offering a candid smirk. “Oh, I’m sure you were just _suffering_ around here without me. Say, is that skolebrød?”

He meanders, shrewdly plunking the second bag up onto the counter when Jesper turns his back. Fixates on the basket of treats sitting on the desk inside, just out of reach. Perks up, when Jesper bristles at his tone.

“Hey, no- I know what you’re thinking…” The postman growls, glaring at Mogens like it’ll dissuade him. Groans, when he comes back in the room, only to be met with more work. “Those are part of a class project from _the school_ , they’re _a gift_.” He warns, sliding the basket across the desk and as far away from Mogens as he can get it. Glowers at the mailbag for a moment, hefting it up with a grunt.

“Ahh, from Miss Alva then?” Mogens hums, keeping his voice light and casual. Does his best to distract the postman, already plotting his move. Watches Jesper leave the room again without budging. “That ship finally set sail, or are you two still dancing?”

A grunt at that, but he doesn’t expect much more in response. Heaves himself over the counter with a grunt as soon as the postman is out of sight, the half-day it’s been since he'd last eaten more than a long forgotten jar of mushy carrots suddenly glaring.

“Uhh, not really? I mean, it’s not like, a big deal or anything,” Jesper counters, tone muddled from the other room. Lingers, taking his time before he returns. “I don’t think she has... _feelings_ for me, you know? It’s just-” He starts, and then seems to think better of it. “Why am I telling you this? I mean, you’re…”

Whatever he’d been saying cuts off with a groan as Jesper comes back to find Mogens, sprawled in the saggy old chair like it’s his own, a pastry in hand. The basket is perched comfortably at his elbow, and a sizable portion of the skolebrød are already missing.

“Of course.” Jesper grumbles. Scowls, giving Mogens the most withering glare he can manage, “Why did I expect anything else?”

He fumes, and gets just a guileless grin in return. Mogens hums to himself, shrugging when the postman stalks over to snatch the basket. “What?” He blinks, offering an innocent frown. “You said it’s not a big deal, I figured you wouldn’t mind a little help grading the project...”

A sharp look. The postman groans, used to the abuse by now. “I meant not a big deal like ‘not anything romantic’, not not a big deal like ‘go ahead and eat half of them’!” He snaps, tucking the remaining pastries up in a high perch where he’s fairly certain Mogens can’t reach. “You are just…. Insufferable.”

A hum at that. “Don’t I know it...” Mogens smirks, settling back and preparing his next barb. Frowns, when Jesper pads off again to the other room, intent, apparently, on getting a head start on his sorting.

He hesitates. Considers lingering there, getting cozy, but really he wants the company. Grimaces, getting to his feet with a grunt.

In the back room, formerly a broken-down kitchen which still has a pot-bellied stove and pantry tucked at one end, Jesper has both bags set in front of another grid of boxes, this one not overrun by chickens. Sorting through the heap of letters with focused efficiency, though the methodology is lost on Mogens.

He pauses at the sound of Mogens’ boots in the doorway, and then the postman gives him a look that seems to say ‘ _Are you still here?_ ’

A blink, and Mogens falters for a moment. Pipes up, before he can think better of it. “You know, postman, you really oughta have me over for dinner sometime. This ol’ wreck is really coming together, it’d be a shame if we didn’t get the chance to, ah, _commemorate_ your work here...”

Silence at that. Jesper doesn’t give more than a glance from his work, but doesn’t protest when Mogens takes a cozy seat by the warm stove. “Why would I do that, it’s not like you don’t wander in here whenever you want...” A scoff, but Jesper doesn’t give him space to banter. “Don’t know _why_ you’d want to come over, but I don’t think I can really extend an invitation. I mean, it’s _freezing_ once the sun goes down, and I don’t even have anything that nice to _serve_ . And I mean, I’m not really… _ready_ to start having guests over you know, this place is still pretty much a dump.” He practically devolves into a ramble, dragging one hand over the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed. Mogens snorts, leaning back to really feel the heat over his back.

“Oh I’m not talking about some _fancy_ dinner party...” He sneers, rolling his shoulders and watching the tension drain from Jesper’s shoulders. “Just some drink and a little chit chat. Trust me kid, I’m not gonna mind if you don’t get out the good silver.” A snort, but the offer isn’t negated again. “ You’ve put in a lot of work in here, trust me. No one knows this rickety ol’ shack like I do, all the fickle postmen I’ve had to drag outta this place over the years…”

A pause at that. Jesper freezes, as if the idea hit him all at once. Turns to look at him, expression pinched into incredulity. “Is that, _actually_ a compliment I’m hearing?”

~

Simultaneously, in the worn down tavern sitting in a dark corner of town, a different scene plays out. A pair of unfamiliar sailors huddle at one end of the quiet bar, arguing over something in hushed tones. Hushed, but not as quiet as they _think_ they’re being, and when the bored school teacher catches an all too familiar name in the tangle of syllables, she ignores them. Tries to ignore them.

“It’s just not right, you know it’s not.” The taller man insists, chiding his companion with a gesture. “Mogens never-”

“ _Mogens_ don't want us here.” The other snaps. Looks up at him, features drawn into scowl. “Y’don’t need me to tell y’that. We’re just goin’ t’make things worse f’we try t’fix this, ‘n what if we-”

His gruff voice cuts short, as he catches sight of the subdued scene around them. Of Alva’s sharp eyes fixed on them. The man scowls, drawing himself inward.

“Oh.” She blinks, realizing in the same moment they do that she’s been eavesdropping. “Don’t mind me, sorry. Just wondering what mess that fool’s gotten himself into now...” She flusters, making a show of not caring, and then slinks off. Pauses, when the taller of the two calls her back.

“Ah, just a moment miss…” The man beseeches, and then seems to hesitate. “Do you think you could help us out here?”

He’s deterred by a sharp sound from his companion, but ignores it. Gestures for her to come closer, shooting the man a _look_. “We’re, ah, friends of his, you see, and haven’t seen him in… In a long time. My companion and I, we came up here for a little respite; while we await some construction back, ah, back on the mainland.”

A scoff from the other man, but he doesn’t argue. Turns in his seat, meeting her eye with distrust.

“Didn’t expect t’find him _here_.” He adds, and something in his gaze softens. “We, ah, we need t’make some things right with’m.”

Alva nods, doing her best to appear contemplative. Despite her line of work, she’s not exactly the best people-person at times, and settling disputes like this is one of her least favorite tasks. Children are so much easier to handle than grown adults, especially grown men. Especially the sort of friends she imagines _Mogens_ keeps.

She rolls her jaw, working the problem over. Wonders, absently, what the town’s resident ‘miracle worker’ would do- though that question is answered before the thought can fully form.

Well, can’t hurt to try.

“You know, I can’t say I’m all that close with Mogens really, but usually he’s the one amending things I think; not that I’ve ever seen him apologize.” She muses, and turns the idea over in her head. “He’s not really the public confession sort of guy, is he?”

That earns her an interested look, but neither add anything. The taller man frowns, as if he doesn’t quite agree.

Curiously, the other man doesn’t seem to notice, nodding after a moment. She continues, noting the conflict, but decides to leave it be. “Maybe try something a little less upfront? I mean, uhh...“ A scrutinous look, and Alva fumbles for the right phrasing. “I mean, the whole long distance… postal thing is getting really popular around here for a reason...”

Contentment at that. The more pessimistic man barely reacts, while the other lights up. Grins, seeming to bounce in his seat almost. “Now that sounds like a reasonable idea. You were just mentioning not wanting to be too obtrusive, weren’t you Håkon?”

Håkon gives a noncommittal shrug. Grunts, leaning forward onto the bar with apparent intent to pull the discussion back between the two of them. “If y’think so.”


	4. Cause Neither Of Us Is Gonna Taste As Good If We're On Our Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> not sure if it comes across but i hc mogens as having dyscalculia, which makes written down math (fr example busy tables of numbers) hard for him to parse

_ In the heat of summer, after months upon months of being at sea, going ashore feels like the world’s been made new, like the morning after a hard rain. Peaceful. Staying aboard during the rush to get offshore feels almost delphinian; even if the two of them are left on ship more from command and convenience than want. _

_ Mogens snickers to himself, a little drunk on the sensation of one hand resting openly in his (and, well, maybe a little plain-drunk, if he’s being honest), giddiness clouding his already fraught sense of judgement. Håkon is reserved, warm against his shoulder, and all of a sudden Mogens is overcome with the desire to lean in and kiss the man’s jaw. He indulges, stealing a taste of the whiskey on the man’s breath, and for a moment Håkon stills, going reverent. _

_ A moment, and then his attention snaps back to his paperwork. The conversation returns to the matter at hand. _

_ “Let me focus’n this, Mogens,” Håkon chides, putting one hand to Mogens’ cheek for a moment. “I need t’balance the logs, while we have th’time.” _

_ Mogens snorts, rolling his eyes at the man’s paternal tone. “Doctor up the captain’s logs? Now?” He chides, shifting closer to kiss the tension from his brow. “You’re all business, Puff...” _

_ A scoff at that. Håkon remains glued to his work, but doesn’t object to the affection. Stiffens, when Mogens moves to lean against him further, the berth they’re resting on giving a loud creak of protest. _

_ “Quiet.” He warns, soft grin betraying his conviction. “If s’meone were t’overhear us…” _

_ The reprimand feels almost like a challenge to the deckhand, and Mogens grins. Sucks his teeth, earning a look of warning. “Oh right, right. Because the whole smuggling cargo from the stores and selling it under the table issue would be so much better...” _

_ A sharp look, but Håkon doesn’t argue. Sulks, bending over the logbook again. The pencil comes to dance after a moment, keen tip dancing from box to box. Mogens takes a moment to scan over the record, but can’t bring himself to focus on anything in particular. Håkon’s neat rows of profits and losses are dizzying to make sense of, and he’s always been more the muscle of their operation, anyway. Hide the goods, find targets to sell to; not too complicated really. He does the grunt work, Bernt spins his mess into something useful, and Håkon makes sure everything else lines up. _

_ He rolls his eyes, and again steals a kiss, this time pressing his lips to Håkon’s wrist. This time, the sore man grunts, not giving him the attention he’s looking for. Grimaces, pencil pausing, before resuming it’s scratching. Mogens frowns, (not liking the attention not on him). _

_ He grunts, shifting again and drawing a discontented hum from the man. [gets up], moving to nudge the logbook aside, and climbing across him to plop down in its place. Håkon hisses, cursing under his breath and shifting to accommodate. Pulls his things back insistently, but lets Mogens take his lap, curled up with him like some great cat. _

_ For a moment the atmosphere is tense, and Mogens almost regrets pushing Håkon even further. _

_ “Utterly ridiculous, you are.” Håkon sighs, and all tension leaves Mogens’ shoulders. “Does Bernt let y’do this t’him?” _

_ A hum at that. Mogens chuckles, settling back and letting himself get comfortable. “Nope. Only  _ you’re _ soft enough to let me...” _

_ The other man chortles, and the sound reverberates against his back. Gives Mogens a look too soft to be scolding, and resigns himself to his fate. Egos that would have been too sensitive to bear this indignity just a year and change prior are subdued, and the two of them practically melt into one another. He heaves a sigh, shifting his position again so they’re out of sight to any potential onlookers, and then stills. Relaxes, giving the crown of Mogens’ head a quick peck. “Per’aps it’s because  _ you’re _ gettin’ soft...” _

_ An affectionate hand pats against his midsection, arm curling around him. Mogens brushes off the jab with a snort, and settles in himself. Reaches for his neglected mug, and then goes lax again. Opens his mouth, wanting to keep the banter going, but finds his words failing, and so pulls the man’s hand up to kiss his calloused knuckle instead. Stills, settling boneless next to Håkon and allowing him to concentrate. Watches the man work, sorting through the endless lines of figures with brutal focus. Ostensibly, he’s keeping an eye for anyone else who might still be on the ship, walking into the berth to see the two of them curled against each other; indisputably affectionate. Ostensibly he’s keeping his eyes anywhere but Håkon’s thick, skilled hands. _

_ Largely though he’s just lounging, savoring feeling warm and spoiled next to his sweetheart. _


	5. You Put Up The Cards, Just To Watch Them Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay so i had a whole section planned out abt what tattoos mogens has where, and then my computer threw a fit and i had to reset it and lost my list, so that part of this is a lot more vague than i'd wanted; other than that i rlly like how it came out

Lounging around Smeerensburg is appealing enough, if he keeps himself entertained. Humorous, and on occasion, almost enlightening.

Somehow, despite Jesper wheedling out at just about every opportunity, he’d managed to convince the skittish postman to an evening of shooting the breeze. Saunters up to the post office, a couple bottles of half-decent port tucked away as incentive (traded from the local cobbler in exchange for a moratorium on the bodice-rippers he gets in with his other supplies), he feels almost returning to the old post office, despite the chill.

The late afternoon breeze has turned from brisk to frigid, and as the jaded old mare Mogens’d borrowed from said cobbler trudges up the hill to the dark building, he grimaces, fighting off a shiver.

Mogens shivers, hurrying the horse on with a flick of his wrist. Lets himself into the building without bothering to so much as knock, half-knowing he’s welcome anyway and half simply not caring. Pushes in, heading right to the ragged chair at the desk with a groan.

“Helloo?” He calls out, sliding snow-caked boots up to the desk loudly, only to be met with nothing in response. The entire building is dark. “You there, Postman?”

Silence, for a long moment. The post office is deathly still, and Mogens half-considers if he’s _actually_ been stood up.

He’s about to get back to his feet, go see if the postman’s gotten caught up somewhere, when the heavy door slides open, and a halo of light falls over the room. There’s a thin figure in the doorway, the soft light of a lantern casting everything into contrast, and Jesper gives a long, exhausted groan.

“Ah, I see I’m fashionably early,” Mogens hums, shifting up to get a better look, but not moving otherwise. “And here I’d worried about you heading off to bed before I could get here...”

A pause at that. Jesper, who’s shuffled inside, bag of mail heavy behind him, gives a grunt, and then seems to register what he’s heard. Gives him a blank look, no idea as to what he’s talking about. Blinks, and then realization dawns. “Oh right, the dinner! Gah- I completely forgot, I’m sorry...”

Mogens snorts, watching the man fret with idle humor. “Yeah what’s the deal; I’ve been waiting _forever_ over here…” He snorts when the postman stops and gives him just a flat look in response. Grunts, hauling himself from the chair. With the door hanging open the chill in the room has gotten unbearable, and he’s not gonna get any warmer just waiting for the postman to deal with it.

When Jesper gives a confused look, he spells it out, “you got any firewood ‘round here, Postman, or do you keep all that outside?”

The postman gives an exhausted nod after a moment. Jesper points him to the mountain of firewood stacked against the far wall, going back to his wearied routine, and then some sort of realization hits. Reason takes over and he seems to think he’s making a mistake.

“Wait, wait wait! What are you- Let me get it!” He insists, racing over and grabbing an armful of wood before Mogens can find a non-loadbearing log. Stumbles over himself, shoving a bottle at Mogens, and then seeming to regret it.

“Just- Ugh, just give me a minute here, alright?” He splutters, embarrassment bringing an unsteadiness to his motions, and Mogens feels just a twinge of guilt. “I know I keep bailing, and I’m sorry, things have just been… overwhelming lately. give me a few minutes to finish up, and then we can chat?”

A hum at that. Mogens hesitates, thrown off at the odd turn, but gives in nonetheless. Takes the hint and does as directed, heading back to the chair with a shrug. “If you say so.” A put-upon sigh, and the postman seems to relax at his indifference. “I _do_ have a busy schedule to work around here myself, you know…”

He snorts at that, but Jesper doesn’t bite. Gets to work, seeming to calm at having something to do with himself. Tosses an armful of firewood in the little cast iron woodstove, lighting the pile smoothly. Not as neatly as he could, but practiced enough. Turns his attention elsewhere before he settles; there’s a good amount of mail tucked in his bag, and he heads to the mess of boxes on the side wall. Moves automatically, sorting letters into several different bins, and Mogens makes no comment. Watches him a moment, lost in the rhythm.

Whereas not two years prior the postman might’ve been utterly overwhelmed at the amount of mail Smeerensburg now sees, a spoiled lordling unused to more than the daintiest of labor, now he’s stubborn, and efficient. Practiced, if not as economical as he could be. Confident in himself, and Mogens can imagine that in a few years more time, Jesper might become a highly-skilled postmaster. Adept, not having the time to waste on a fool like him.

Shoving aside the thought, Mogens turns his attention back to the here and now. Gives the bottle in hand a quick glance, before cracking the seal. “ _Cinzano Rosso_ , looks fancy...” He hums. Fights against the instinct to take a sip for a moment, before catching the shape of what seems to be a pair of wooden cups in the bottom drawer. “Breaking into the top shelf stuff, are we?”

Jesper gives him a snarky look, shrugging. “Uhh, yeah not really. My dad sent that a couple of months ago, when we hit 1400 _genuine_ outbound letters. I haven’t really gotten around to opening it, and I figured…” He shrugs, turning to give Mogens an almost sheepish look. Averts his eyes, as if embarrassed he’s offering it.

Mogens nods in response, filling both cups and eyeing the drink with measured appreciation. “Oh you really _are_ breaking out high-brow stuff here; What would your father think, to see his good wine being wasted like this?” He smirks, pausing to take a sip, and that train of thought is cut off entirely. “Oh, wow. I can _taste_ the extravagance.”

A snort at that. The postman shakes his head and leaves the barb alone. The bag is left abandoned at the sorting wall, Jesper giving up the ghost of getting any more work done tonight. Meanders off, pulling a second chair from some unseen storage. “Nah it’s not even that old. I think he figured I’d put it away and forget about it or something...”

Still, the man takes the compliment without further objection. Shoos Mogens from the more comfortable seat with one hand, and then takes his place. Groans, dropping into the chair gracelessly, and takes the offered cup with a sigh. “Sometimes I really do miss having real luxury though...”

  
  


It’s several hours before they break into the second bottle of port. The sky has gone black, and by that point Mogens has only a decent estimate about how far in he is. Still upright, at least, and isn’t yet embarrassing himself too badly. The postman is even worse, fumbling for his drink, and spilling it half the time. Red-faced, barely able to stay still, attention flitting from subject to subject. It’s a hilarious sight, and Mogens can’t stop himself from teasing.

“You know,” He drawls, leaning forward onto his elbows. “I don’t think you’re being entirely honest with yourself about all that business with Miss Alva. That woman marched all the way up here with all those children’s hard work, and you don’t think she even meant anything by it? I mean, kid I’ve known that woman a long time now, and I don’t think she does ‘casual affection’...”

Jesper groans, giving the other man a disbelieving look. Swirls his cup as a distraction, wincing at the spill. “She didn’t _march_ up here, really she just kinda tossed it at me while I was in town. And, I mean, you’re looking too deep into this thing, it’s not like-” 

He snorts, cutting himself off, and Mogens frowns. Sits up a bit, dragging his eyes from the scatter of paperwork on the desk. Gives the younger man a pause, to sort himself out. The question on his tongue is hazy; Jesper shaking his head and breaking back into speech before he can ask it.

“Oh wow, I’m a fool...” The postman chuckles, shifting his weight back and then smirking, seemingly at himself. Snorts, giving a relieved look that feels entirely divorced from Mogens. “I don’t think I’ve really even thought that I _could_ have someone if I wanted. I mean, if I wanted I could, uh...”

Mogens blinks at that. Weighs the intent in his words, and finds his first impression holding true. Gives Jesper the most dry look he can manage, even if he’s fairly sure none of this is about him. “Now, if you’re gonna sit here and try to tell me you’ve got _feelings_ , postman....”

The man freezes at that. Jesper splutters, looking him over with a clear scrutiny that confirms two things at once, and then _recoils_. Disregards the idea with a wince, and only seems to realize how impolite that is after the fact. “No! I mean it’s not, uh-”

He stumbles over himself, and Mogens decides to give him an out. Shrugs, draining his cup with practiced indifference. “Not your type kid, I get it.”

A wince. Jesper nods, throwing a hand over his face in embarrassment, hesitates, and leans over for a refill when Mogens offers. “Yeah, exactly. I wasn’t trying to, uh, hit on you, I just meant I have options I didn’t consider.”

Mogens grunts at that. Settles back, letting the mood recoup. There’d been a vague feeling of risk for even _joking_ about the postman flirting with him, even if he’d been pretty sure he was on the right track. Secure, knowing that at worst Jesper would toss him out, and he’s too settled in the community now to be troubled too much at being outed. Would be derided, and ultimately isolated to be sure, but not outright attacked, not with how Smeerensburg is now. ‘Options’ rings in his head though, feeling like damning hope.

“Think you’re dreamin’ there, kid,” He eventually rumbles, sensing the tension in the room. The tension that has introduced itself in his silence, and made itself comfortable. Rolls his shoulders, attempting to put the kid at ease. “Smeerensburg might be a haven of all things family-friendly these days, but it’s still ‘grace of God’ and all that up here, when all’s said and done.”

A shrug at that. Jesper gives the warning a moment’s consideration, reacting with little more than a frown. Seems not to get the weight of his implication. “I suppose. I guess I don’t really… Have much experience with that side of things, really…” The confession is accompanied with a light frown, as if the crushing weight of compelled immorality isn’t something he’s ever had to deal with directly, only known as an afterthought. The postman shrugs, offering him an almost detached look, and Mogens feels like the floor’s dropped out from under him.

He blanches, shifting forward to rest his weight on the balls of his feet and give Jesper the most scrupulous look he can, though even sloshed as he is, he can tell he’s practically gawking. “You’re kidding me, right? I know the silver spoon shields you from all the, the _harsh_ aspects of the world, but you can’t really be telling me your ol’ man was all fine and dandy with you not passing on the family name?”

He frowns, and he can feel the hairs raising on the back of his neck. Knows he’s exposing himself, cool front lost on harsh disbelief, but can’t bring himself to care. Calms back down, when Jesper shakes his head.

“No, of course not, we didn’t like, _talk_ about, about the _kind_ of people I wanted to be with or anything,” He snorts, shrugging off the man’s disbelief. Mogens grunts in response, slumping back in his seat like nothing had troubled him in the first place. “But like, I wasn’t really allowed to have anything casual with _anyone_ , for the most part. There was always this air of ‘would this be an appropriate course of action‘, and at a certain point I just…” 

He trails off. Shrugs, sniffing at his cup with purposeful casualness. “I guess it never really felt like it mattered, you know? If I was with a girl, or a-a _guy_ …” Jesper manages a stiff smile, wooden. “I’d still have to bring it to my dad eventually, like the whole thing was just some _distasteful_ bit of paperwork. The whole… routine would be the same ‘is this an acceptable use of your time’, ‘Will this look good for your reputation’...”

Mogens grunts in response, saying nothing. Is unable to summon anything more comforting, something in his chest numb. He’s not really able to think about what it must have been like for Jesper, more used to being the idle trinket not worth confrontation over. 

Eventually, he manages some form of a response. “Least that’s one less thing to worry about now, hm?” He hums, reaching across the table for the discarded bottle of vermouth. It’s tipped onto its side, practically empty, but from this angle, Mogens can make out the last traces of drink lingering along the bottom, and the memory of it is sweet on his tongue.

He leans forward, and as he reaches for it, the sleeve of his ratty sweater rides up (the wool coat had been shucked off some time ago, now left abandoned by the door-ish), revealing a taste of the tattoo on his wrist.

Jesper blinks into motion, all thought of his own struggles forgotten. “Woahh, what is that? Did you hit your arm on something? That bruise looks like it hurts; it's really dark...”

The open concern drags a laugh from Mogens, dark mood-lifting instantly, and he can’t bring himself to mind. Drops his attempts at snagging the bottle, in favor of showing off. Pushes his thick sleeve up to show the design better, displaying the haphazard collection of tattoos running up his arm in full.

The ferryman’s mismatched collection, all poorly maintained and faded into a mess, are a jumble of concepts. Amateur freehand next to traditional flash, and the bulk of them still fill him with pride, especially when the postman balks, taken utterly by surprise.

“Mn, yeah it hurt a lot...” He whines, feigning pain and earning a scoff from Jesper, and giving his best playful wink. “Wanna kiss it better...?”

A groan. Jesper rolls his eyes, leans back, but his gaze stays fixed on the dark shapes on Mogens’ arm. Awe-struck, and not bothering to hide it. “I’ve, ah, never really seen anything like those before...” He admits, seemingly to himself. Finds himself gawking almost. “Why do you have so many?”

Rolling his eyes, Mogens settles back, letting him stare. He doesn’t have that many, not where he’s comfortable sharing them at least, though to Jesper’s inexperienced eye, perhaps it’s a lot. Takes up a lot of room, and he preens at the attention. Pushes up the other sleeve of his sweater, chill alone keeping him from shucking the shirt entirely. Stretches both out so he can see, and Jesper gasps in response.

“I can’t imagine you have...” He gloats, huffing and fighting the urge to flex. This isn’t that kind of a scenario, but it’s been a long time since he’s shown himself off. “Sheltered thing like you would never have a reason to give someone like me the time of day.”

Jesper scowls, but the tease is playful enough, delivered with enough lightness, that he doesn’t take it to heart. Leans forward, when Mogens doesn’t pull back, and visibly stops himself from touching. Fixates on the figure 8 knot sitting just above his wrist that’d caught his attention earlier. “Wait, is that one just some rope?” He frowns, inept enough not to really insult, but the man’s tone is rough on his pride nonetheless. Mogens snorts, amusing himself with the sudden change of topic.

“Yep!” He chirps, shifting himself forward to get a bit comfortable, weight resting on his elbows, and ignoring the beginnings of an ache in his lower back. “Got that one in this dingy little seaport, for my assignment as a deckhand; I think I was, what twenty-two then? Twenty-three, maybe?”

A frown at that, and the postman gives an almost blank look. Has the consideration at least, not to ask ‘why is that worth memorializing, and Mogens takes the high road. Spares him the tedium of answering.

Focuses on a different story instead, savoring the chance to be admired. It’s been a long time since he’s had an excuse to show off for fresh eyes, and longer still since affectionate eyes have been on him. Not that the postman’s are, and not that he really wants them to be, but there’s a comfortable intimacy to be shared amongst like-minded men, he’s found.

“This one, over here, this was one of my first.” He explains, drawing the postman’s attention to the cat silhouette sitting on his bicep. “Our ship’s cat was this crafty little thing; sneaky, you know? Spring comes, and we pull from port and she starts acting more than a little off; I start noticing she’s getting awful friendly ‘round us, when normally she’d bite you for lookin’ at her wrong. Getting a little big and touchy, if you get my meaning...”

Jesper nods at that, seeming to follow along. Hazards a guess, leaning himself forward a little further. “She was having kittens?”

A half-beat of a pause, and Mogens catches himself nearly nodding. Getting lost in the retelling. “Well we thought so, didn’t we? Me and, well, we got in the habit of keeping an eye out for her, making sure she’s got spaces to rest, and giving her bits of our rations even. Drove the mate up the wall, but we didn’t pay him any mind, we were _gripped_ with the idea of having kittens underfoot.” 

He pauses a moment, giving the story time to breathe. Takes a second to refill his cup and take another sip.“So we set up this little area under our bunk where she could get all cozy, and waited for her to, y’know, give birth. And waited.”

A beat of silence, and Jesper leans forward just a bit. “A month or so past when we’d thought it’d happen and come to find, the blasted thing wasn’t pregnant to begin with!” He snorts, palm thumping on dry wood. Waits for the tale to land, but Jesper either doesn’t find the story as funny, or Mogens’d forgotten some detail. He screws up his expression and backtracks a little. “Turns out she wasn’t even the same cat that’d been on the ship initially; hopped on board at some point while we were docked and it took a good while for her t’get her sea legs. Gotten lazy, with all the treats and coddling we were giving her, and slacked off on her job. Of course, I’d already set my mind on the tattoo by that point, and ah…” Mogens hesitates, not quite sure how to tell the tail end of the yarn without going into _lurid_ detail so he doesn’t, rolling his hand in a vague gesture. 

The postman gives a polite hum, as if waiting for some punchline, and starts to say something, but stops after a syllable. After an awkward moment, his attention drifts to the sparrow on his left forearm, peeking out from under his rolled-up sleeve. Gestures, when Mogens asks what he’s looking at, and when Mogens tells him, half-joking, that it’s a memento from some of his more _memorable_ lovers, the man’s face goes beet red.

Snickering to himself, Mogens gives him the truth, or at least what they’d meant when he got them, that the sparrows represent family, and the inevitable return home. Explains how the thirteen written over the horseshoe on his bicep means (counterintuitively) luck, the snake curled around his calf, danger and virility. The two of them settle into an easy rhythm, Jesper pointing out some faded bit of ink, and Mogens giving it some grandiose meaning. Provided he _has_ one, of course. Sometimes an octopus is an octopus and that’s all there is to it.

An age seems to pass, and eventually, he runs out of stories to tell, or at least that he’s comfortable telling.

The silence that settles over them is lighter than before, comfortable almost. He considers, briefly, peeling his boots off and showing him the pig and rooster on his ankles while he’s at it, but doesn’t budge. The pair have faded to a muddled blur over the years, agonizing as they were to get in the first place, and you’d have to really know what you were looking for to recognize them. And it’d be too much effort now to even explain the point.

The cold nips at his exposed arm, but before he can get around to pulling his sleeves back down, Jesper reaches out, cold fingers on his wrist. Blinks in concentration, drawn to the one tattoo the ferryman hasn’t talked about, purposefully. The anchor, thin and delicate and dominating the space on his inner arm. well-maintained, for the lack of sun and grime it’s seen.

“What about this one?” Jesper frowns, words careful and deliberate. Hesitates, before tracing the line of the ring head with one indelicate finger, and Mogens flinches at the touch. All comfort leeches out of him, and his fist clenches. The postman seems not to notice. “It looks different than the others...”

“It is.” Mogens hums in response, relaxing and letting Jesper examine it closer. The light tone takes him by surprise, no hint of the bitterness or melancholy that thinking about the anchor usually brings him. “That one’s, ah, commemorative.”

“Commemorative...” Jesper repeats. Pulls back, sensing Mogens’ discomfort. “Aren’t they all commemorative? I mean, don’t most of them have some deeper meaning to them?”

Mogens hums in response, not pulling the sleeve down over his arm like he wants. Stills himself, brushing off the concern and settling his weight forward a bit. “The rest of these are all flash. Pick a design off the wall and get something a hundred other guys have, you know? This anchor, though…” He shrugs, surprising himself with his fondness. “There’s only two other people in the whole world that have this on them.”

The postman gives a hazy nod at that. Mogens smirks, leaning back and rolling his sleeves up. Fends off the burst of sentimentality with a snide barb. “You sure I’m not your type, kid?”

The man recoils at that, and makes a theatrically disgusted expression. Pulls his hand back, letting Mogens pull his sleeves back down without a word. Withdraws himself a bit, leaning back to practically recline in the creaky old chair.

He rolls his eyes in response, kicking at the air absently, and then asks, forcefully casual. “So, uhh, what you were saying earlier…” He starts, all tact waning as the amount he’s drunk starts to hit him. “Before, about, uhm,” he trails off, a vague rolling gesture with his off-hand, and Mogens frowns. Scratches his head, thinking back to whatever they’d been talking about before the tattoos.

“The, ah, the deal with the last postman?” He frowns, slipping to a casual lean and taking the postman’s brief pause as confirmation. “Yeah, I guess I left out a _few_ details there. I told you about, ah, about all that curse nonsense, right...”

“No, no, not that.” Jesper shakes his head, and for a moment the man seems almost frustrated. “About the whole... Harsh aspects of the world thing. You, uh, do you… have much experience with that sort of thing, ah, in Smeerensburg?”

Ah, that.

Mogens blinks, shifting his line of thought. Crosses his ankles, grinning cattily. “Now what makes you think a delicate flower like myself would throw myself at the sorts of fellas _you’re_ interested in, hm?” He teases, but doesn’t wait long enough for Jesper to retort, barking out a sharp laugh. Shakes his head, downing the rest of his drink with a swallow. “Aside from my obvious _worldliness_...”

A roll of Jesper’s eyes at that, and he drops the tease before the postman can get in a retort. Finds himself continuing the thought, before he can get caught up in some other tangent. “Not that I’m not _well_ experienced with Smeerensburg’s _goings-on_ of course, but I wouldn’t say I’m the guy to help you out there.” He shrugs, refilling his cup. “assuming there’s even anything going on nowadays; we are in a _shiny_ new Smeerensburg, after all...”

Jesper grunts at that. Hesitates, frowning and absently pinching his lips. “I guess I didn’t think about it all like that.”

There are more questions, buried beneath the deflection, but the postman doesn’t ask them, and Mogens is grateful. They wouldn’t be of any use to Jesper, would only bring Mogen’s mood down further.

What’s done is done, and frankly, there’s not much better it could have gone. Flirting with danger like that, in such a tight space; something was bound to go wrong.

Mogens focuses on the here and now instead, Smeerensburg and its dull comforts, and carefully ignoring the ache of what he could have had.

  
  


~

  
  


In the morning, everything is too much. Too bright, too loud, and Mogens just wants to crawl under the desk and die. Knows, inescapably, that there are things waiting for him, and things he needs to get back to. He needs to get moving. Needs to get up off the floor.

Jesper, similarly suffering, seems to think the same. Groans, urging him back awake with one insistent nudge. Has a tin mug of what can only be water clutched in his other hand, his brow pinched with agony. There’s already a thick beam of sunlight creeping in from the window, but the ambitious little noble seems determined not to let the day get away from him.

“You need…” He starts, scowling, and then seems to think better of himself. “I need some peace here, alright?”

An age passes, and despite his desire to wallow, Mogens can’t bring himself to argue. Nods wordlessly, slowly rolling to his feet with a drawn-out groan, only somewhat exaggerated.

He stretches, abused spine cracking audibly, and shakes off the postman’s nonexistent concern with a wave of his hand. Shakes his head and gets moving; grabbing his coat from the floor, and staggering to the door.

“Well, that was a fun night...” Mogens eventually manages, turning to see the postman slumping in the tired old chair, the spectre of his ignored work looming over him. “Let’s do that again sometime, hm?”

  
  


Eventually, he meanders back to the docks. To the privacy of his ship, and the comfort waiting there. A (mostly) clean bunk, and somewhere dark to suffer. At least a half-decent meal tucked away somewhere, and maybe a few hours peace, before the inevitable intrusion.

A few hours or, as it turns out, not even a moment. There’s an all-too-familiar pair waiting for him, little more than silhouettes outlined by lamplight in the fog that’s settled in, and they can only want one thing. Mogens groans aloud, too hungover for anxiety.

He can’t stifle the tired sigh, when he reaches them, either. Draws it out, turning his misery into something more playful. Pauses dramatically, offering the two a sardonic look.

“Well, finally had enough?” He teases, but there’s no trace of mirth in his tone. Both sets of eyes turn to him, but he catches himself before he can get too affected. Gestures, and they follow him onto the boat, bags in tow.

The sway of the boat makes the headache worse, but Mogens grits his teeth and suffers through it. Manages not to stumble, and Håkon, at least, seems mindful of his desire for space. Trudges along, nudging the other man to silence, when he tries to speak.

“Last voyage to the mainland, leaving now...” Mogens snarks, more for his own amusement than any real malice. Gets to his post, setting off without bothering to wait for any potential salvation.

He just has to get through this.

The trip back to the mainland is just as tense and simultaneously draining as the one in, if not more so. Punctuated by the weight of judgemental eyes, and thick silence. The shock at having them turn up like this has faded somewhat, and with it he just feels existentially tired, and more than a little annoyed. Bernt hovers, lingering at the bridge and making every move feel like the wrong one, while Håkon wanders, snooping around the boat like he’s looking for contraband. Sniffing around, and Mogens has to swallow the urge to snap at the man, tell him to mind his own business.

This is his _space_ , after all. He’s supposed to have some control, some measure of privacy here.

About halfway through, about when Mogens’ headache goes from splitting to pounding, Bernt pipes up. Asks his question hesitantly, voice soft. “Seems like you’ve got a good ship here; does she have a good paddle clutch, then?”

Mogens grunts in response, not pulling his gaze from the horizon. Answers his question, and the ones that inevitably follow with as much detail as he can manage. His eyes don’t leave the sea, but he allows himself to grow just a little agreeable. Comfortable, and maybe almost relaxed. 

  
  


By the time they have land in sight again, Bernt seems to have contented himself. Håkon is back by the wheel with him, a brooding figure watching carefully, but saying nothing. Keeps close, as if keeping him in line. 

Stalks off again to fetch the anchor almost as soon as they come close to the dock, before Mogens can say a word, and the ferryman struggles not to flinch in response.

Just grits his teeth and bears it, not bothering to fight the man’s paternalism off.

“Well, it‘s been nice to see you, Mogens,“ Bernt pipes up, distracting him from the slight, and Mogens hums in response. Nods, and though he almost means it, the warmth doesn’t reach his eyes.

Meets Håkon’s gaze, but doesn’t linger. “Oh, of course! Come back anytime, really...” He ushers the man towards his things, and off the boat. Finds himself reaching for the bag at the same moment Bernt does and for a moment he lingers. The ink on his inner arm itches, and he pulls back. Lets Bernt go without a word.

Håkon, on the other hand, idles. Hesitates, tapping his fingers together the way he does when he’s nervous. Hangs there, anxiety readable even after all these years. Mogens presses his lips together, shifting his footing and waiting for Håkon to bring whatever the issue is to _him_. Doesn’t want to hear it, not _now_ , but doesn’t have the strength to really push him away.

He waits, and just as already thin patience starts to fray, Håkon makes his move. Corners him before he can get back to the plank, Bernt’s figure far-off behind him. “I’m sorry, Mogens. For everything. W’shouldn’t have-” He backtracks, at the stiff inhale Mogens takes at that. “ _I_ shouldn’t have turned my back on y’like that. It was cowardly, n’you deserved, uh, y’deserved _better_.”

Mogens flinches outright at that. Freezes, a dagger of ice running down his back. His hands twitch, remembering the sting of fingers pulled just from reach.

  
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” He rolls his shoulder, shouldering the apology with cold indifference. Turns away, not giving either the mercy of direct eye-contact. “It’s been nice seeing you, in a way; a little reminder, you know? And, ahh, you _did me a favor_ back then, really. I would’ve ended up dragging the two of you down at some point, honestly, and this way we can all keep our hands squeaky clean, isn’t that nice?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have never been drunk and it probably shows


	6. Eternal Rest, To Witness Being Erased

_Mogens shivers, pulling the thin wool of his overcoat around him a little tighter. Curls down into himself a bit lore, trying to hold onto a little bit of warmth. Every part of him feels downright icy and slightly damp. He can’t quite remember how long it’s been since he’s felt comfortably_ warm _._

_After, well after he’d made it off the_ Aureate _, he hadn’t known what to do. Hadn’t been able to get out with more than the clothes on his back, a haphazardly packed bag that was more sentimental than useful, and enough coin for a few nights in a ratty little tavern. Managed to sweet-talk himself into some trivial job up north, hopefully out of reach of anyone sent after him. A ferry job, just something to keep his hands busy. Lay low, keep himself occupied, and figure out the next step._

_There’s going to be a next step. This is just temporary. It has to be._

_The awful little town he’d eventually found himself consigned to, nothing but thick layers of snow piled on slick ice and crooked buildings built haphazardly under still more heaps of snow, is downright picturesque; provided your picture comes from ‘_ Dark and Gloomy Monthly _’ and not ‘Marvels of the North’. Full of nothing but bitter, spiteful people, constantly at each other’s throats. It’s miserable, perpetually overcast, and whatever beauty the pristine snow might hold is muddled by the perpetually overcast sky, throwing a shade of grey over everything. The sort of place the_ Aureate _would pass by, not worth the effort of coming to shore. There’s absolutely no lenience afforded for anyone not a part of the brutal generation-spanning war, nowhere they could-_

_The thought of_ them _, of the life that still feels like his, is a particularly thorny one he keeps coming back to. He can’t get the memory of it out of his head, the feeling of just_ belonging _. The way they had relied on him, had made him feel known on some primal level, without him realizing. He feels almost_ incomplete _, now that it’s gone._

_His preoccupation is interrupted by a low growl, and the added chill of a tall shadow falling over him, and he returns to the battered remains of what may have once been a church, or perhaps a school; though it’s long sat abandoned in its fenced-off little corner. Currently, Mogens is lounging in one of its dusty old desks, taking brief refuge from the sleet currently raining down. Some red-haired brute, one of a few bent around some sort of game in the next room over, a ragged deck of cards sprawled out over the upturned barrel, had caught him scowling in the vague direction of the slowing downpour and apparently taken it personally. Mogens reacts on instinct, avoiding the man’s swing by a handful of seconds. Grits his teeth in a snide grin, returning with a jab of his own. He finds a petty joy in turning the hulking man’s strength against him, only for it to turn bitter when the man gives a holler, and his back-up arrives._

_Smeerensburg may be a particularly frosty ring of hell, but against all odds, he’s adapting to it. Getting used to the peril of it all, the constant threat under nearly every interaction. There’s a rhythm to it, an ebb and flow that feels almost like a dance. Life here seems to be one long game of chicken with no shortage of mischief to keep himself entertained with. There’s little opportunity to dwell on anything deeper; and there’s a base comfort in knowing that, however big of a mess he might get himself into, there’s likely someone stumbling into even worse._

_As Mogens staggers his way from the schoolhouse, he catches the disarmingly forlorn sight of the town’s ‘battle bell’, and grimaces. Pulls the collar of his coat up a little, remembering the trouble that he'd gotten himself into when he’d first shown up._

_The town had been deathly still when he’d first pulled the rusty little ferry to its near-abandoned docks, had seemed almost_ abandoned _in its unnerving desolation, and the silence had unnerved him. Mogens, unaware and anxious, had latched onto the idea that he was supposed to_ ring _the damn thing. Had panicked, assuming the bell would help somehow, would summon some sort of help, something he could deal with._

_And, in a funny enough way, he’d been right._

_By the time he gets ‘home’, stumbling back to the crowded little bunk under the ship’s deck he’s been sleeping in, too weary to risk braving somewhere in town, Mogens’ mood has grown from wistful to downright sour, and he finds himself spiraling. In a quiet spell of reflection, and not really in the mood to shake it off at first._

_Maybe he really is just one big mistake; he’s probably better off left forgotten in some miserable place like this..._

_The self-beration is eventually blocked out with punitive distraction, a harder than necessary shove forcing the metal door open, leaving his shoulder stinging. He groans, carefully avoiding the weight of his situation with the sweet ale tucked under his cramped mattress, and a heavy dose of denial for good measure. He isn’t going to be here much longer, Mogens reminds himself. This isn’t anything lasting, even if it feels that way. Much as he might be coming to doubt it, he holds tight to that thought. Everything he’s going through here all temporary._

_He just needs to keep his head together and eventually, he can put this whole awful experience behind him._


End file.
